


Every Little Thing

by the_beekeeper_of_sussex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Come as Lube, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 12:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12817950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_beekeeper_of_sussex/pseuds/the_beekeeper_of_sussex
Summary: When Sherlock walks in on John making tea wearing nothing but a tight pair of boxer-briefs things get a little heated...physically and emotionally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's always been a bit of a head-canon of mine that one of John's favorite music groups is The Police. Their song Every Little Thing has a bit of a Johnlock-y vibe to it if you listen to the lyrics.
> 
> Also, [ this is the lotion I envision Sherlock having on his bedside table, the posh little shit...](http://the-beekeeper-of-sussex.tumblr.com/post/167855937385)

Sleep was not a practice in which Sherlock Holmes indulged with any degree of consistency; an hour here, a few hours there, fleeting moments in the back of a taxi on the way back to Baker Street. John had spoken to him at length on the matter on many an occasion to no avail--Sherlock would always run his body ragged in favor of “The Work”. Every so often, however, he would begrudgingly yield to his body’s needs and provide it with the rest it required. The Yard’s most recent case had dragged on for several grueling days, culminating in an early morning foot chase which seemed to take them through every seedy back alley London had to offer. The pursuit left them bone-weary, the seventeen steps leading to their flat an almost insurmountable feat. Managing to finally stumble across the threshold, they parted ways for their respective beds without a word between them.

Wakefulness eventually came for Sherlock. As he rolled over onto his back he winced at the dull ache that seemed to permeate every inch of his body. The hum of traffic on the street below his window indicated it was still early, but late enough in the morning that the commute was well underway. Eyes still closed, he grappled at the bedside table, his hand closing around the familiar shape of his phone. Squinting his eyes open against the light he found the display confirmed his deduction: 8:24 a.m. His brow furrowed and he mentally cursed his transport’s need for rest. Casting the bedsheets from off his body, he arched his back and stretched his limbs, groaning as he felt the satisfying pops of his joints slotting themselves back into place.

Body realigned, he swung his feet over the side of the bed and made his way toward the kitchen where John would no doubt have tea waiting for him. A smile rose to his lips at the thought of it. John had managed to shake most all of his military habits after moving in to Baker Street, but his morning tea routine had remained deeply ingrained in his psyche, and for this Sherlock was infinitely grateful.

Padding silently past the loo, Sherlock registered music playing softly from the radio they kept near the sink along with the tell-tale *click* of the kettle just shutting off. He strode into the kitchen intent on offering his characteristically droll commentary on John’s predictability. The moment John came into view, however, the words died in his throat and his body froze. Believing that perhaps the mental haze of having just woken was playing tricks with his mind, he closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. Opening them revealed that the scene had remained very much unchanged. John stood, towel in hand, drying two mugs he had washed-up in preparation for their morning tea. He sang along softly with the radio as he foraged in the cupboard for the teabags, the tune obviously familiar to him. Thus far, these were all things Sherlock would have expected to see John doing in their kitchen at any given moment. What had caused Sherlock to cast doubt on his mental faculties was that in place of his usual pyjama bottoms and t-shirt, John’s body was clad only in a pair of dark grey boxer briefs. Briefs that fit snugly and gave definition to each firm buttock. Sherlock had never seen John in anything less than some combination of loose-fitting jumpers and a pair of jeans, but he had deduced that, with the amount of running they did, John had developed a well-toned body; one which was currently swaying in time with the music. Sherlock stood transfixed as he watched the muscles of John’s backside shift rhythmically with the music.

Having located the teabags, John placed one in each mug and set them aside to steep. Turning to lay the table for breakfast, he caught sight of Sherlock lingering in the entryway. “Oh! Morning, Sherlock, you’re up early,” he smiled, “Well, early for you, anyway. Sleep well?” 

Unable to manage more than a jerky nod of his head, Sherlock stood silently as John finished preparing their tea. Finding a warm mug had at some point been pressed into his hand, he looked on as John nattered on about the weather, what was on for the day, what jam he had decided on for the toast, and countless other trivial talking points he currently had no interest in. Using the moment to his advantage, Sherlock allowed his eyes roam over John’s body. To his delight, the boxer briefs were just as snug in the front as they were in the rear and he could feel his face heat as his eyes traced the soft outline of John’s cock. Flaccid, he appeared to be larger than average (but not shockingly so), as well as uncircumcised. As his mind was wont to do, Sherlock absorbed the details in front of him and mentally constructed an image of what John would look like fully erect. The results were notable, to say the least, and he filed the data away in his mind palace to analyze in greater detail later. Alone.

Redirecting his focus back to the one-sided conversation, he found that John had gone both still and silent. One hand was clenched at his side, the other wrapped tightly around the handle of his mug. His face wore an expression which Sherlock found maddeningly unreadable. John’s eyes were intently focused in his direction, but he was not making eye-contact. Furrowing his brow in confusion, Sherlock followed John’s line of sight which ended at the prominent erection which was tenting his pyjama bottoms.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he felt his entire body run cold. Mortified, he slammed his mug down on the table, turned briskly on his heel and retreated to his bedroom, throwing the door closed behind him. Erection having vanished, he collapsed on the bed and buried his face in his pillow. He’d barely begun to brood over the situation when there was a light knock on his door. Sherlock frowned into the pillow as the impending scenario quickly played out in his mind: John had undoubtedly come to tell him that “while the physical reaction was perfectly natural, he was uncomfortable with Sherlock’s feelings for him and he would be looking to leave Baker Street as soon as possible.” Inhaling a ragged breath, Sherlock fought to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill over. His lack of response prompted another light tap followed by the squeak of hinges as John nudged the door open just far enough to address him. “Sherlock? Can I come in?”

Sherlock turned onto his side, his back to the door, “No, John, you may not,” he rasped.

Undeterred by the rejection, John stepped into the room and settled himself on the bed, his back propped against the headboard. He pulled his dressing gown closed around his midsection, having had the foresight to grab it from the living room before giving chase. He watched silently as Sherlock’s back expanded and contracted in time with his shallow breaths, the smooth rhythm punctuated now and then with a shudder. It was the quiet whimper and subsequent sniffle that nearly shattered John’s heart into pieces. He laid a tentative hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “Hey…hey what’s going on? What’s wrong?” Silence. "Sherlock, can you look at me?...Please.” A brusque shake of the head was all he received in return. “All right, then,” John sighed, “I’ll do the talking for now, but if you decide you have something to add just butt in, okay? You never seem to have much trouble with that.” John hoped the joke would garner some sort of reaction from Sherlock, but he remained mute. Clearing his throat awkwardly, John forged ahead: “Look, what happened in the kitchen...well, the… _reaction_... you had was perfectly normal ( _‘Here it comes,’_ Sherlock thought to himself) and I’m…well, to be honest I’m a bit chuffed that seeing me in my pants was so appealing to you.” John offered Sherlock’s shoulder a small squeeze and smiled, “I’m not getting any younger, Sherlock, and the thought of someone as gorgeous as you even giving me a second glance is flattering as hell.”

Sherlock turned his head and glanced sideways at John with glassy, red-rimmed eyes, “You think I’m… _gorgeous?_ ” he whispered.

“Jesus, Sherlock, you have no idea.”

Sherlock shifted and curled his body toward John; he toyed nervously with the hem of the dressing gown. “Tell me.”

John gave a soft chuckle, “Fishing for compliments are we?” He could feel the colour rising in his cheeks but he pressed on: “Well, for starters, you’ve got fantastic hair. No matter how much running around we do in the pissing rain it still manages to look fantastic. Secondly, you’ve got bloody amazing bone structure and cheekbones most women would kill for. And those posh clothes you wear...Jesus. The cut of your shirts hug your waist just right, and the fit of your trousers do a brilliant job at showcasing your lovely…um…,” John cleared this throat, “Sorry, got a bit carried away there.”

Sherlock’s mouth ticked upwards, “Do go on, John.”

“Right,” he smiled, “Well, you’re also one of the most kind-hearted people I know. I don’t think there is a thing you wouldn’t do to protect the people you care about. And, I know it’s a bit obvious, but I would be remiss if I didn’t add how brilliant you are. You constantly astound me with that brain of yours.” His smile broadened, “You are a _wonder_ , Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock mumbled into John’s hip, “Kindness and intelligence aren’t physical attributes, John.”

“Maybe not, but all of it together has shaped you into the man you are…the man I’ve come to love.” John squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. He most definitely had _not_ intended to blurt out a confession of that magnitude. His heat raced. As Sherlock was a man who never did anything by halves, he knew there was only going to be one of two possible reactions to his blunder: Sherlock would call John ridiculous and they would go on as normal and never speak of it again; or, he would say that it would be impossible to continue their work together in the same capacity now that this dynamic had been brought to light and he would need to move out.

They sat together in silence. The hiss of tires on the damp pavement and the muted sounds coming from the radio felt almost deafening in the quiet of the room. Accepting he couldn’t hide behind his closed lids indefinitely, John took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He saw that Sherlock had barely moved a muscle and still lay on his side with his face buried in John’s hip, but his fist was clenched tightly around the bit of dressing gown he had been fiddling with, his knuckles almost white with the force of it.

“I’m sorry…Christ, I’m so sorry.” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, “I never wanted to tell you like this. Honestly, I’m not sure I ever wanted to tell you at all.” Heaving a sigh, he folded his hands in his lap and pressed on: “I know that you’ve always considered us friends; _best_ friends, I hope…I certainly have. I can’t say exactly when things started to… _evolve_ …for me, but, for so much of my life it felt like there was a part of me that was missing; an emptiness. I am _whole_ when I’m with you, Sherlock, and… I’m sorry that I’ve gone and cocked everything up.” His voice cracked and he knew that if he were to try to go on speaking his emotions would get the better of him. Sherlock still hadn’t budged, but John could hear him huffing shallow breaths forcefully through this nose, clearly upset.

Thinking it best that he leave the room (and possibly the flat altogether), John began to ease himself off of the mattress. He wasn’t able to get far, though, as Sherlock would not relinquish the grip he had on his dressing gown. John sighed as he tried to gently wrest the fabric from his hands, “Sherlock, please. I’m trying to make this easier for both of us.”

“Did you mean it?” Sherlock muttered.

John’s brow furrowed; he’d clearly missed a step somewhere. “Mean what? That I want to give us both some space to think about the bombshell I just dropped? Yeah, I meant that.”

Gripping the dressing gown impossibly tighter, Sherlock tugged John toward him. “No, John. The things you said. About how we’re best friends. About how you… _love_ me. ” He said the two words cautiously as though he were afraid he had misheard.

John reached over and rested his hand gently on the back of Sherlock’s head. “Of _course_ I meant it.”

Drawing in a ragged breath, Sherlock looked up at John, eyes wide. “How could someone like you possibly feel that way about someone like me?”

John shuffled himself down the bed and turned so that he and Sherlock faced each other. “What do you mean?”

“You’re so… _good_ , John. You’re kind, and brave, and put others before yourself. Whereas I’m rude, have little regard for the feelings of others, and am petulant at best,” his bottom lip wobbled, “Yet, somehow, you have found me worthy of your love. It doesn’t make sense.”

John wrapped his arm around loosely around Sherlock’s waist, “Being ‘worthy’ has nothing to do with it. You _deserve_ to be loved, and I will give you all the love I am capable of for as long as you will allow.” Leaning in, John drove his point home by placing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

It was little more than a brush of lips, but Sherlock felt as though his entire body were crackling with electricity. Giving himself over to the desires of his transport, he tipped his head upward and pressed his mouth firmly against John’s. Caught off-guard, John gave a quiet gasp which Sherlock used to his advantage in order to deepen the kiss. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to work at capturing every taste and texture until they were both utterly out of breath and their lips barely ghosted together. Pulling his head back, Sherlock looked at John, his eyes pleading yet apprehensive, “I’ve wanted this for so long, John; so very, very long.”

“Whatever you need, Sherlock… whatever you want,” John whispered.

Not breaking eye contact, Sherlock tentatively slipped his hand between the folds of John’s dressing gown. He traced the contour of John’s thigh until his hand met with the undeniable signs of arousal trapped beneath those tight gray pants. With a feather-light touch he ran his hand up John’s length and watched as his pupils dilated in response. Encouraged by John’s reaction, he increased pressure and repeated the motion, earning him a determined thrust of hips coupled with a quiet moan. Releasing his own shaky breath, Sherlock withdrew his hand from its position between John’s legs and began to loosen the belt of the dressing gown. Getting to his knees, he gently encouraged John onto his back. He pushed the fabric of the dressing gown aside and helped John to work his arms free of the sleeves, the soft material pooling around him.

Struggling to ignore his own insistent erection, Sherlock slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of John’s pants and slowly worked them down his legs. Sitting back on his heels, he permitted himself a moment to take in the sight before him, his eyes tracking slowly up and down the length of John’s bare form. The morning light threw every enticing contour into stark relief and Sherlock immersed himself in committing each nuance to memory.

Sherlock had just begun his cataloguing when a light nudge to his arm caught his attention. John propped himself up on his elbows and smiled softly. “We’ve all the time in the world for you to file things away in that big brain of yours, but what I want right now is to get you as gloriously as naked as I am.”

The candor of John’s words caused Sherlock’s breath to catch and heat to rush to his cheeks. While he was by no means a modest individual, the prospect of making himself vulnerable by stripping away this final bit of armor made him suddenly nervous. He would do this, though. He would do this for John. Swallowing thickly, he averted his eyes and gave his head a quick nod. His hands moved to the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms and he began to fidget awkwardly with the small knot of fabric.

Watching Sherlock struggle with the simple knot gave John pause. Sitting up, he laid his hand on top of Sherlock’s to still him. “Hey, we will take this as quickly or as slowly as you want--you set the pace. Anytime you want to stop we stop,” Sherlock’s hand tightened its grip on the drawstring, “If I’ve pushed you too far, too fast we can stop right now and just lay here and hold each other if you’d rather. I need you to understand that I am okay with that. I don’t want to rush you into anything you aren’t ready for or comfortable with, yeah?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I know you would never do anything to hurt me, John, or force me to do something I didn’t want to,” the corner of his mouth ticked up in a grin, “Besides, when have you _ever_ known me to do anything that I wasn’t fully invested in?” Turning his hand, he curled his fingers around John’s and gave a light squeeze. His expression sobered, “I do want this with you, John. I sincerely do.”

John smiled softly, “Whatever you are willing to give, I will gladly take.”

After taking a moment to compose himself, Sherlock gently coaxed John onto his back and carefully settled himself on top of John’s thighs; his long, slender legs slotting naturally in to place on either side.

Moving ever so slowly, John snaked his hands beneath the soft fabric of Sherlock’s shirt and skimmed his fingers up and down the cool skin, smiling softly when Sherlock’s body shivered. He continued the rhythmic motion of his hands until the skin beneath them was warm to the touch. Snagging the hem in his fingers, John worked the shirt up and off of the pale torso. His hands on Sherlock’s biceps, he coaxed the body down to rest against his own, sighing contentedly when their bare skin finally made contact. Wrapping his arms around the lean body he gave a gentle squeeze, “You still doing okay?”

Sherlock responded by tucking his head into the crook of John’s neck and laying a light kiss just below his ear. John nestled one hand in the mop of curls while the other slowly ventured downward and dipped below the fabric of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. They had both gone a bit soft, but when he discovered that Sherlock wasn’t wearing any pants, John hummed appreciatively and gave a squeeze to the firm buttock he was cupping. He pushed the pyjamas over the plush bottom and as far down as he could with his hand. Once he had exceeded his reach, he gripped the fabric with his toes and began to work them the rest of the way off with his feet.

After the fabric slipped from his toes for what felt like the hundredth time, John dropped his legs to the side. “Bit of help would be appreciated,” he huffed.

“Mmm…far too comfortable, John,” Sherlock purred, “Besides, the current shifting of your body is working _wonders_ for my level of arousal.”

John smiled, “Well, glad I could be of service, then. Although,” he sighed, “it’s a shame those pyjama bottoms of yours will keep me from actually _doing_ anything about your arousal.”

“You’re teasing me,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Well spotted,” John shot back.

Hitching his legs back up, the two worked together. With a final helpful shuffling of Sherlock’s feet, the fabric finally freed itself prompting John to give a shout of triumph.

They lay still for just a moment, both to catch their breath, and to simply enjoy the feel of each other’s body. Much like their personalities, John’s body was warm and comfortable while Sherlock’s was slightly cooler to the touch.

John turned his head and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, a stray curl tickling his nose in the process. Moving his hands out from where they had been tucked up beneath John’s shoulder blades, Sherlock sat up to rest on his forearms. John smiled up and him and cupped the smooth face in his hands. His thumbs brushed lightly over the sharp cheekbones beneath them. “There you are,” he whispered, as he pressed their mouths together.

It was clear that Sherlock’s experience with this level of intimate contact was limited at best, but what he lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm as he began to move his hips against John’s. He kept his rhythm slow and deliberate. The glide of their bodies against one another quickly had them both back to being fully erect and it took every ounce of self-restraint John had not to grab Sherlock’s arse, push their cocks together, and drive them to completion.

As though he had plucked the thought straight from John’s mind, Sherlock abruptly stopped his movements and pulled away. For a brief moment John worried that he had pushed Sherlock too far, but his fears were quickly put to rest when Sherlock snatched the hand lotion from off his nightstand and thrust it toward John. “I believe lubricant of some sort will make this more pleasurable for the both of us, yes?”

John huffed out a laugh as he grabbed the bottle and squeezed a large dollop into his palm, “Should do, yeah.”

Taking them both in hand, John smoothed the lotion over their firm lengths. Sherlock moaned loudly and nearly doubled over as the sensation of John’s touch overtook him. John yanked his hand away and froze, his eyes widened with concern, “Are you okay? Do we need to stop?”

Sherlock shook his head as he took a moment to compose himself. After a few calming breaths he lifted his eyes to John. “I assure you I am fine; more than fine, in fact. However, at the risk of sounding overly dramatic, if you don’t start touching me again this _instant_ I may actually expire.”

John placed his hands cautiously on Sherlock’s hips, “Okay,” he nodded. He knew that Sherlock wanted this with him, but he also knew how easily overwhelmed the man could become. “Just…promise to tell me if it gets to be too much?”

Leaning forward, Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s. “I promise,” he whispered.

Once more they began to rock slowly against one another. As they moved, the he heat of their bodies intensified the subtle scent of coconut and lavender from the lotion. The wooden bedframe creaked beneath them and the headboard offered an occasional thump as it was pitched against the wall in time with some of their more enthusiastic thrusts. Their breathing took several forms: gasps, moans, sighs, the occasional murmured curse-word or endearment. Moments not spent vocalizing their pleasure were used to lick, nip and suck at any bit of bare skin within reach.

Beginning to feel the build of his climax, Sherlock hastened his pace. His breathing became more ragged and the tiny moans he exhaled began to synchronize with each roll of his hips. He locked eyes with John, his expression desperate.

Recognizing he was on the precipice of climax, John gave a gentle squeeze to Sherlock’s hips, “Go on then, gorgeous,” he breathed.

The muscles of Sherlock’s abdomen clenched and he gave a short cry as he came. He’d climaxed plenty of times before by his own hand, but this time was different. The intensity of his orgasm was so great that for a brief moment it felt as though his mind had become perfectly still. He squeezed his eyes shut and allowed himself a moment to relish the feeling of how everything had gone blissfully quiet.

Feeling a light brush to his inner thigh, Sherlock opened his eyes. His brow furrowed slightly to see that John had taken himself in hand. He frowned. It was supposed to be _him_ that brought John to climax. Reaching between them, he stilled John’s movements. “May I? Please?”

John smiled and relinquished the grip on his erection, “I’d be bloody chuffed if you did.”

Returning John’s smile, Sherlock curled his fingers and slid his hand along John’s length. Hand lotion and his own release mixed together, easing his hand into a fluid glide. He ran his hand from root to tip over and over again, biting his lip in concentration as he strived to find the optimal rhythm that would continue to pull the most exquisite vocalizations from John.

Digging his heels into the mattress, John pushed himself up into the warm slick of Sherlock’s fist, “ _Christ_ , that is _brilliant_ ,” he moaned. His hands twisted in the sheets and his breaths began to quicken with each thrust of his hips. He clenched his eyes shut as he struggled to form words, “I—I don’t think I’m going to—to last much long--” Before he could complete his thought John threw his head back and groaned as his orgasm overtook him, Sherlock looking on in rapt silence.

John sighed as his cock gave a final half-hearted jerk and slowly began to go flaccid. Being careful not to jostle them too much, Sherlock gently resituated himself so that they lay side by side. As he waited for John’s breathing to return to normal he ran his fingers through the mix of sweat, lube and ejaculate that had pooled on his abdomen.

John lifted his head lazily, “Do I want to know?” he drawled.

Sherlock hummed, “Observing the change in viscosity as the mixture cools.”

“Right,” John nodded, “Carry on, then.”

John managed to doze off for a bit while Sherlock continued his experiment on bodily-fluid dynamics. When he woke he found Sherlock propped on his elbow staring at him intently. “You’ve been asleep for _ages_ , John!” he whined.

Turning his head, John glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Sherlock, I couldn’t have been asleep for more than,” he squinted as he did the math in his head, “fifteen minutes!”

Scowling, Sherlock dramatically threw himself backward onto the mattress. “I’m hungry,” he pouted.

John covered his face with his hands and muttered to himself, “Christ…I’m in love with a complete nutter.” He huffed out a laugh and hopped from the bed, “Right then, up you get!” he announced.

Sherlock looked on, puzzled, as John pulled on his pants and give a quick scrub to his stomach with a tissue. “What are you on about?” he asked.

“You, Mr. My-Body-Is-Merely-Transport, are actually hungry for once. That’s practically a national holiday as far as I’m concerned. We are going back into that kitchen and we are going to have ourselves a proper breakfast. Besides,” he grinned, “you’ll want the energy to sustain yourself for another go later, yeah?”

Sherlock launched himself from the bed and pulled his pyjama bottoms back on. “You make a sound argument, Dr. Watson, and I have it on _very_ good authority that one should never argue with their doctor.”

Back in the kitchen John dumped out the mugs of tea that they had abandoned earlier that morning and set to work prepping the kettle for a fresh batch. As he puttered, Sherlock padded up from behind, wound his arms around John’s waist and gave it a light squeeze. He rested his chin on top of John’s head and watched as teabags were dropped into each cup and hot water was poured on top. Sherlock mused to himself over how so many things had changed for them since just that morning. He tightened his grip slightly on John’s middle. “Do you think you might dance for me again sometime?”

Grabbing his phone from the countertop, John thumbed through the few apps he had and tapped the one he wanted. The song that had been playing on the radio that morning began to sound from the phone’s tiny speaker. Without breaking the embrace, John turned in the circle of Sherlock’s arms and reached to place a gentle kiss on his lips. “I’m sure that could easily be arranged,” he hummed. “This song reminds me of you, you know.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “Does it?”

“Just listen to the words.” Giving his hips a slight wiggle, John brushed their fronts together invitingly. “May I have this dance, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock returned the shimmy, “It would be my pleasure, Dr. Watson.”

Their mugs of tea were once again left to grow cold on the counter as the two men shuffled together, barefoot, over the cool floors of Baker Street.


	2. Lyrics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic from the album Ghost In the Machine (1981)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As long as the link still works, you can find the music for this song [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxkMFgFjC8E)

Though I've tried before to tell her

Of the feelings I have for her in my heart

Every time that I come near her

I just lose my nerve

As I've done from the start

Every little thing she does is magic

Everything she do just turns me on

Even though my life before was tragic

Now I know my love for her goes on

Do I have to tell the story

Of a thousand rainy days since we first met

It's a big enough umbrella

But it's always me that ends up getting wet

Every little thing she does is magic

Everything she do just turns me on

Even though my life before was tragic

Now I know my love for her goes on

I resolve to call her up a thousand times a day

And ask her if she'll marry me in some old fashioned way

But my silent fears have gripped me

Long before I reach the phone

Long before my tongue has tripped me

Must I always be alone?

Every little thing she does is magic

Everything she do just turns me on

Even though my life before was tragic

Now I know my love for her goes on

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is only my third fic and I hope that I improve a bit each time and made the reading experience enjoyable for you!


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